


A Baseless Narrative

by Tweetyviolet



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, Brotherhood, F/M, Gen, No actual mention of name, One Shot, Scars, Secrets, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 15:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tweetyviolet/pseuds/Tweetyviolet
Summary: A stranger observes a man from afar. How much we see of a man from his actions leads us to his story. One-shot.





	A Baseless Narrative

**Author's Note:**

> This has reference to abusive relationship and scars.

We are taught that a story is made of pieces. Endless combinations that form a tale, a plot, a jigsaw puzzle; they teach us a moral, tell us something interesting or invite us into a secret. Often these jigsaw pieces are motifs – strung together and repeated to form an image. Sometimes they are conversations, twined into a clear beginning, middle and end; that detail a change in perception or surrounding. This story doesn’t follow these norms, because this story has no conversation upon which to base it, and no image to form; just observation (with keen eyes) and speculation that has been drawn together to create some semblance of a plot. For this very reason, I hesitate to name my following observations a story – descriptive as they may be, they are estimations that have been assembled into a descriptive hypothesis. Though the most avid of readers may disagree, of course, and argue that an hypothesis is a story; in which case, I invite you to share my considerations. 

 

In the late autumn, as the leaves blanketed the ground in a dizzying array of shades and the trees emerged from their summer cocoon, a man entered the village. He was neither diminutive nor imposing, neither brash nor meek. He was altogether forgettable, except for a quiet strength that radiated from his person - tilted chin and tired eyes. He embodied strength with his tightly coiled walk, like that of a wary animal, both predator and prey – a contradiction that he seemed to embrace with his relaxed posture, yet tense eyes. He was unfamiliar, an oddity.

The man was refined in style, a well groomed beard graced his angular face and accompanied his well-made, yet common clothes. He seemed to prefer a casual style, loose jeans and a thin t-shirt in the hopes of evading the buzzing warmth that besieged the sprawling valleys and fields of the French countryside. The small signs upon his person suggested a busy lifestyle, grooved lines etched upon his forehead and a determined stride he adopted, whenever he dared venture from his cottage. He could not have been more than forty, yet his forever stern visage implied an older soul.

The man inhabited a dilapidated cottage. Set on the outskirts of the village, the chalet occupied a small percentage of the surrounding fields. Almost intentionally, the rough stone building emerged from acres of golden fields, barely rising atop the long stalks of barley. Towards the East of the property stood a wooden gate, of climbable height, that blocked the entrance to the small driveway and pretty garden.

 

It was here that the man rested, in the cove of an ancient apple tree; wrought boughs weighed over time, to provide shelter from the midday sun. He lounged in an artlessly graceful position, folded hands lay on his stomach and legs kicked out to rest upon the delicate heather. His shirt was folded beneath his head, exposing tanned skin marred by an elongated scar. The faded white caressed his skin in a lovingly cruel embrace, snaking from left shoulder in a southern direction and melding into tan at the correlating hipbone. It was a scar of violence and hatred: a burning anger that had been released, a brutal warning against movement, a confining injury. It told tales. It described a moment of passion contaminated by negative emotions, for only a lover would be allowed this close to the wary man. The scar itself wasn’t deep - no strength in the wielder of the blade - in comparison to the lean muscles of the man. This was only the physical echo of a mental disfigurement that would recede and close, but linger and hunger for positive emotions. The scar was a price, the true cost of loving emotions and tender moments. Love was ugly and bitter.

 

Later. The man rose from his guard, glanced away from the gateway towards the surrounding fields, nodded and stalked towards the chalet.

The chalet changed with time. Each day, as the sun rose to the crowing of cockerels, the man would emerge from the wooden door. He carried mortar and slabs of slate. And without fail, he would rebuild the cottage. Again and again and again. The man would rise at dawn and work till dusk – when he would retreat to the cover of the towering tree. The labour was immense and frequent. He appeared to triumph through every endeavour; his lips would crease with pride at every section completed, no matter how small. He worked tirelessly, determinedly. And regardless of the sweat that drenched his top, causing it to cling, he would never remove the dark shirt that covered the lover’s scar.

 

He would, however, roll up his sleeves exposing tanned skin and veined muscles, that bulged with strength, controlled by nimble, dexterous fingers. And upon his right arm rested an holster, filled by a knife. The holster was leather, strapped tightly to the inner forearm, always ready to release. The knife never seemed to leave his person, a weapon of self-defence. Occasionally, as his eyes clouded with tears his hand would stray to the holster. He would remove the knife from the holster - tight grip on the carved metal - and run his index finger against the sharp edge. At that point, the tension would drain from his shoulders and his eyes would return to their normal sharp disposition.

 

The sun shifted. Glaring at the world from it’s elevated position.

And in response, the man unbuttoned his collar. Upon his sternum lay a golden locket; etched with swirling vines and leafage that formed a subtle fleur de lis. The symbol of musketeer brotherhood was faded in abstract patterns, as though someone had taken a scouring cloth to the emblem, in the hopes of destroying the lingering emotions. Whilst well styled and elegant, the pendant was obviously old, the tarnished and battered surface spoke of childhood adventures and teenage promiscuousness. Yet, the well-dressed man refused to remove the sentiment of love and affection. On moments when his eyes would cloud with emotion, the man would gently prise open the royal emblem and reveal a small photo of four boys – siblings in nature, but not looks – as well as a folded piece of paper. The creases of time had worn sharp edges into blunt corners, and faded the black ink to a grey smudge. 

But still, the words were legible:  
A picture may be worth a thousand words,  
but a person is worth a thousand more.  
Words of recognition, of praise, of qualities,  
of ambition and love.  
With this picture I share a thousand words,  
But only some of these words are mine.

 

At the end of every reading, the man would turn towards the sun, he would crumple the paper into a fist and punch the nearest object, fury rushing through his veins. The shadows would drift over a scowling smile and twist weary eyes to intense shadows. His behaviour would then shift, carefully smoothing the paper and folding into neat segments, replacing the words in the locket and shutting the lock firmly. He would stand in the shadows, fist clenched around the locket for a moment, before turning and stalking towards the chalet.

 

The chalet was unoccupied in autumn, winter, summer, spring... until four years later the man returned: more scars, tenser shoulders, longer working hours, still clutching the pendant in a tense grip.


End file.
